


Off to the Races

by Camorra



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drug Use, Infidelity, M/M, Referenced Necrophilia, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-02 18:31:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16792405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camorra/pseuds/Camorra
Summary: Shiki's about one finance meeting from doing something inadvisable with a gun.Izaya just might be his savior.God help them all.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> based of a post varrix once had but later took down because it was too depressing xD  
> thanks to yu for reading this through. YOU THE BEST.

Very fittingly, it’s pouring.

If Shiki were a sentimental man, he’d say the sky was crying too. Maybe it’s crying  _ for  _ him, tears he simply can’t seem to find. 

Maybe it's for all of them. For all of their composed, heartless asses that can't break decorum long enough to mourn the passing of a saint.

Not even his grandmother is crying. Well. She's the last person Shiki’d ever expect to show any sign of weakness. She’s standing near Seiji, watching him like a hawk. Because they all know what the youngest Yagiri likes to get his rocks off to but it’s not proper to exclude your fiancee’s younger brother from the funeral, people might  _ talk _ . 

And so his grandmother has to stand watch to prevent them from getting a  _ show. _

His mother is graceful and elegant, even in death. Even as she was dying from the slow, consuming sickness that even money can’t halt. 

She was young. So young. 

“Mr. Tomiyama,” a woman says. It’s not someone he’s seen before, but she’s pretty, with big brown eyes and hair that frames her face and cascades down her back. “My condolences on the passing of your mother, I didn’t have the chance to meet her, but I’m told she was the sweetest woman anyone could hope to meet.”

She seems genuine enough, no hint of guile in her eyes or posture. So Shiki finds a smile somewhere down in him, engrained through training, the one that’s polite and says nothing.

“Thank you,” he says. “I’m—”

“Shiki,” his grandmother says, and the syllables are harsh on her tongue. Sharp. He’s  _ Shiki  _ not  _ Tomiyama,  _ and he always will be an outsider. The ugly duck in the flock of swans. The bastard son of a con man. “Namie has been looking for you.”

His grandmother’s smile towards the woman is cold, even by her standards. “Miss Komiya, I’m glad to see you could make it. Of course, your support is appreciated in this trying time.”

His grandmother turns on her heel, a sharp dismissal. “Shiki, Namie’s outside the hall waiting for you. She’s  _ distraught. _ ”

Namie? Distraught? 

There’s only one thing that makes Namie distraught, and it’s sure as fuck not the death of her future mother-in-law.

His grandmother’s lips are pinched and, sure enough, Seiji is nowhere to be found.

Excellent.

Just fucking  _ fantastic.  _

“Of course. I’ll go see if I can console her,” Shiki says, striding away from the corpse of the only woman who gave a shit about him and the people there to mourn her and towards the woman only concerned with the checkbook in his pocket. 

And outside the doors is Namie and Seiji and a handful of dowdy mourners headed by a woman in near hysterics, but no cop. That makes things easier. 

“—what he was about to do to my  _ baby,”  _ the woman’s screeching at Namie. There’s snot pouring down her face and tears carving tracks in poorly blended makeup, but none of that contributes to Namie’s look of faint disgust and icy demeanor.

“Oh, good. Shiki you’re here,” Namie says, tone bordering on impatient. “Deal with this, I’m taking Seiji home, he’s had a rough day.” 

Seiji doesn’t have the decency to look shame-faced or smug or even fucking  _ satisfied.  _ He has the same dumb, blank look on his face as always. And it’s not a goddamn act, either. God knows Shiki’s spent enough time with the kid to know his mind is as empty as his balls are at the moment.

“You can’t  _ leave,”  _ the woman says. “He’s, he’s  _ defiled,  _ my baby! My daughter!”

“Ma’am,” Shiki says in his best placating tone. It’s the one he uses with employees and it says: ‘I’m trying to be nice but we both know who has the real power here.’ He learned it at his grandfather’s knee and it’s never failed him. “I know you’re upset, I would be in your situation.” 

Not a lie, but pale enough imitation of the truth that it feels like one. His mother’s corpse wouldn’t be the only one in the room if he found Seiji within ten feet of her. “We’re working with him to curb these urges of his, of course.” 

She’s not satisfied. Of course not. “The only reason we’re here today is my own mother died, otherwise, I assure you, he wouldn’t be here.”

She’s softening. He can see it. “But I know that’s no real consolation. Allow me to have some flowers delivered, I know there’s no way make up for the horror he caused, but allow me to try and set things right.”

As if things could ever be right again. 

“Oh, sir, you look awful,” Janice says as he comes in. “I mean. Can I get you some water? I’ll get you some water.”

Shiki doesn’t think water will help.

But he didn’t hire Janice because she’s terribly bright and he’s reminded of that as she bustles around the corner in search of the all-curing water.

She always offers him water, every damn day.

It's because she thinks he's a drunk, rolling into the office hungover. She's not wrong, but she's not right either. He's not hungover, he's  _ tired _ . 

Different.

Janice comes back with water and he sends her back off in search of coffee, like he always does, and she nods approvingly, like she always does. “That’s it, that's just what you need, sir. That'll help you get over your case of the Monday's.”

“Sure,” Shiki says, to be agreeable. 

It's the most agreeable he is all day.

“You sad bastard,” Akabayashi says, rolling into Shiki’s office like he's the one that runs the place and signs Shiki’s paychecks and not the other way around, “you know it's okay to take a few days off to grieve, right? Expected, actually.”

“To do what?” Shiki says, not bothering to look up from his sheet of number and numbers and numbers. They mean something. These tiny little numbers typed up by tiny little people in their tiny little cubes. They represent something physical and real but fuck if Shiki’s ever felt it.

Akabayashi throws his hands up. “I don't know. Drink. Fuck. Get high. Sit on a fucking fainting couch and feel sorry for yourself, I don't know, I don't care. You just can't be here, you heartless bastard.”

“Really?” Shiki says, taking a sip of his coffee. It's horrid, just like it is every time Janice makes it. She puts some sort of nutrition supplement in like he won't notice when his coffee tastes like ass. 

But it's also the closest thing to caring about his health he’s experienced in a long while. So he drinks his ass-coffee and hates every minute of it.

“‘Course,” Akabayashi says. “We both know you have a lump of ice in place of a heart. But it looks bad to the  _ investors. _ ”

“We don't have investors,” Shiki says, tone dry as he can make it, “we’re a private company.”

“It's bad for morale,” Akabayashi tries, switching tactics. 

“For who? Isn’t it important that they see their boss working hard—”

“Go  _ home,  _ you psychopath.”

“See, compromise.”

“How is this a fucking compromise,” Akabayashi broods over his menu. “You don’t go home and face your fucking emotions and I have to pay for your caffeine addiction.”

Shiki sips his coffee loudly. “I don’t have any emotions to face.”

Akabayashi barks out a laugh, harsh enough that the pimped and pretty housewives out to eat their boozy brunch turn and give him the dirtiest eyes that their poor, botoxed faces can allow. “Sure you do. You just wouldn’t know your goddamn emotions if they slapped you across the fucking face, you’re so wrapped up in your misery. Always have been.”

Shiki frowns, and he can feel the effort it takes stretching across his cheeks and forehead. 

“How the fuck would you know?”

“Hello,” the waitress says brightly, in that customer service voice that’s as real as plastic. “What can I get for you two today?”

“I’m fine with coffee, thanks.”

“He’ll have a cheese omelet,” Akabayashi says easily, “with a side of toast. And I’ll have the blueberry waffles with a side of bacon.”

“All right,” the waitress says, deferring to Akabayashi as if it’s the most natural thing. Maybe it is. He wears power like he was born to it, fitting him like a second skin. 

Akabayashi waits until she scurries off to say: “I would know because I’m your best friend.”

Shiki snorts. “That’s hardly true.”

“No, it is. I’m your  _ only _ friend, therefore your  _ bes _ t friend.”

Shiki wants to argue, but finds he can’t, so he settles for glaring instead. It feels weak. “Doesn’t make you a shrink.”

“Don’t need to be a shrink to see you’ve got issues, mate. It’s written all over your fucking face.”

His apartment is empty. 

He thought the point of acquiring a fiancée was that his apartment wouldn’t be empty and wouldn’t echo, that he’d come home and be greeted by someone who cared that he came home. That they’d talk about their days, him about work and the office and how much he hated it and sometimes wanted to slit his throat to see if Janice still offered him water and her about whatever overeducated women that didn't work did in their free time. And they’d laugh and eat dinner or go out and she’d suck his dick and he’d pretend that he liked missionary and she’d pretend he was her brother and they’d sleep and rinse and fucking repeat. Over and over until they died. 

Or maybe they’d have a kid or three or however many her friends were having these days. Or maybe she’d leave him for her brother, the one that likes to jack off to dead bodies and everyone pretends that they don't know. Or maybe he’d kill her in a fit of rage, coked up and fed up. 

Maybe, maybe, maybe. 

But they won’t do any of those things, because she’s not here. She’s probably out at some party or some cocktail event, even though it’s so late on a Monday that it’s practically Tuesday because the well-to-do like her don’t need to work and she  _ hates  _ it.

Because they have the well-to-do like him and she’s disgraced because her ambition went unchecked until it wasn’t and she was in far too deep.

And now she needs him, but not like they need each other in the movies. Not in the way that the world is brighter for knowing each other exist and each breathe is sweeter for the company it’s in.

In the way that his money and influence is keeping her and her brother this side of prison bars. In the conniving way that’s so much more powerful than feelings could ever be.

The only gift his grandparents ever gave him. A baby-making machine to keep the bloodline alive. Lucky him.

But at least he can afford the good booze, the kind that tastes like flavored sunshine and slides down even better and maybe it's the booze that thinks it's a good idea or maybe it's the headache back in his shoulders, but he picks up a phone and he calls a number that isn't saved in his phone but he knows by heart.

“It's me. Half an hour? Great.”

Quick. Business like. He deletes the call from the record.

It's the same hotel and the same room with the same key. To avoid having to check in each time. A brothel out of a hotel, a hotel out of a brothel, what a splendid idea. 

A new girl every time.

At least he doesn't have to pretend to like missionary. 

“Oh, sir, can I get you a glass of water?” Janice simpers, already sashaying off to get him the miracle liquid. 

He’d prefer vodka straight, maybe morphine straight in a tiny little shot glass, but sure. Get him a glass of water. 

And maybe smash it over his head when you bring it, thanks.

But Janice doesn’t, she just sets it gently on the corner of his desk, like its healing energy will waft towards him and cure all his ills. 

“Thanks, Janice.”

“It’s no problem, sir. Oh! And I have the updated financial information that accounting sent over and resource’s proposal to acquire another property.”

Janice has a mountain of paper that represent all the tiny little inter-workings and realities of a hundred people's lives and Shiki can’t quite bring himself to care. Maybe it’s because the numbers swim on the paper, brought to a life of their own by sheer will power. Or maybe the lack of sleep. Who knows, really. 

So he signs off on the acquisition and the updated spreadsheets from accounting that probably have the numbers to embezzle even more funds just to spite him just because that makes them be done faster.

But the work never stops, and soon he’s in meetings that drone on and on with people he doesn’t care about simpering at his feet, telling him numbers that go in one ear and out the other. With PowerPoints that are cheerful and bright and colorful and everything this business is not.

Akabayashi is in one of the meetings. Shiki doesn’t remember what his job title is, except to be the biggest pain in Shiki’s ass he possibly can be, whenever he can be. 

It’s a blur of faces and names, an endless parade. 

It’s almost a relief when he can hop in his nice car with his nice wallet that the drudgery pays for and drive to the shitty side of town. 

Kine, for a drug dealer, is really a judgemental shit.

“You have a good job,” he says even as he takes the stack of crisp bills. “A beautiful fiancée. And you keep coming back here.”

_ That’s why,  _ Shiki wants to say.  _ Shut the fuck up.  _ But he doesn’t, because there are only so many drug dealers and even fewer that don’t cut their cocaine with laundry detergent and just because Kine fucked up his life with drugs doesn’t mean Shiki will do the same.

Even if he might want to.

“I do,” Shiki says mildly. “Have yourself a good one.”

Shiki sure does. It’s magical, really. His transformation. Suddenly he can give a shit about the numbers and paperwork. He’s filled with energy, it’s flowing out of his skin and into other people.

Even goddamn Janice gives him a fucking smile when he comes back from lunch. 

It’s brilliant, it’s perfect. 

Except for goddamn Akabayashi. 

“Aren’t you chipper,” he says mildly. “Almost a different person.”

“Lunch revitalized me.”

“Oh?” Akabayashi says, raising eyebrows behind his dumb stupid sunglasses he wears all the time, even indoors. “So you ate actual food? Or was it a whore’s ass?” Akabayashi cocks his head. “Or was it something stronger? Something our good buddy Kine peddles, perhaps?”

“Perhaps,” Shiki says, because he can’t find it in him to care.

“God, you’re pathetic,” Akabayashi says. “Can’t even get through the day without a hit. You know, I wasn’t going to do this,” he says, rummaging around in his suit jacket and coming up with something small and rectangular. “But I think it might actually be good for you, god help us all.”

It’s a business card. Plain white with black typeface.

_ Orihara Izaya _

_ 725-279-5555 _

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Namie, for once, is home instead of out doing whatever it is she does. He can tell by the rhythmic clicks of her heels on the tile and her insistence on turning on every damn light she passes so that the apartment becomes harsh and clinical in a wash of too much light.

Shiki _would_ take his shoes off, he usually does, but something about having his feet unprotected while she stomps around in weapons barely disguised as shoes makes him feel naked and vulnerable. _She_ never takes her shoes off in his house, maybe she feels the same. Maybe she does it because she knows it drives him batshit. Maybe it’s comfortable for her and she never once spared a thought for him.

Who knows. He certainly doesn’t and he’s not sure which answer he would prefer.

Namie’s in the kitchen, looking through their fridge with something inbetween repulsion and disappointment.

“There’s nothing edible in here,” she says without looking up at him. Like he’s the only one with the ability to buy food.

“You could order something in,” Shiki says, pulling open the drawer where all sorts of takeout menus live and breed and multiply every time he looks. “Tons of options.”

“That would take too long. And restaurant staff are _filthy_ ,” she snaps, before ripping open another cabinet, leaving Shiki blinking in the middle of his brightly-lit kitchen.

Namie, for all her shortcomings and flaws, has never once complained about takeout or restaurants. She’s never made food either, not once since he’s known her.

Suddenly, he’s reminded of the paper card in his suit pocket, the corners digging into his skin through his shirt. He knows what it is, even though he hasn’t thought about it in hours, not since Akabayashi handed it to him.

Maybe Namie can see it too, knows what it is and hates him for it. Maybe the hookers weren’t the problem, but this one, taking advice from an old lover, from a _male_ lover is simply too much. It’s the final straw. She’ll leave and she’ll take her shoes and her clothes and her tubes of lipstick and her shitty red wine and her distain and disgust and walk out of his life.

And he’ll be here, alone, and he can have as many whores and hookers as he wants in the comfort of his own home. He won’t, but he _could,_ and he’ll be drinking one night, and he’ll look over, and he’ll see a picture of his mother, because he’ll be allowed to fucking have pictures of his own fucking mother because Namie won’t be here to make sure the apartment looks like a spread from a magazine and not like either of them live there.

And then Namie slams another cabinet and the illusion shatters because she’ll never leave. Not because of him. In that sense, she’s the most loyal wife a man could ask for, she’ll be here until the money runs out.

Because he sees Seiji on the couch, staring out into space with a blank sort of stare that doesn’t convey deep thought or any sort of thought at all. And it all make sense and the entire fragile bubble bursts and reality comes crashing back in. And he _hates_ having that cretin in his space breathing his air and he knows she knows that. And he feels so _tired_ all of a sudden.

“I’m going out to buy some groceries, I’ll be right back, Seiji,” Namie says, and her heels click-clack against the tile and the door slams and it’s just him and a corpse fucker and a thousand lights at full glare.

He wants to run out and demand Namie tell him why Seiji is here, in his apartment, on his couch, when he knows there’s a sizable chunk of his income going to keep Seiji in a nice apartment that he shares with no one. And why she’s making Seiji food when she’s never once cooked for herself in all the time he’s known her.

He doesn’t. Because he already half knows why Seiji’s here because Namie always insists on treating him like he’s the victim after each damn time he brushes with the police. And he really doesn’t want to know what crime before god Seiji’s committed this time.

So instead, he gets out his bottle of scotch and screws off the lid and doesn’t even bother to use a glass.

Namie doesn’t join him in bed that night.

He’s not surprised.

❖

“Oh, sir, let me get you some water,” Janice says, as always. And bustles off, as always, leaving Shiki with his mountains of paperwork and a printout of his schedule so chock-full of meetings and appointments that it has three lunches scheduled with three different people and no time for the paperwork until eight.

And even though it’s a different suit jacket, he can feel the thick card stock’s corners press into his skin. Because even as he held it this morning with the intent to toss it, even as he went into the kitchen to the trashcan, he made the mistake of peeking into the guest room. His fiancée curled around her younger brother like a lover, probably enough to have her on cloud nine for weeks. To jack-off to for years and years to come and to think about on the rare occasions they can both tolerate touching each other long enough to have sex.

And he doesn’t throw the card away because what’s one more hooker? What’s one more thing in this sham of an engagement?

And he goes to work in his nice car and doesn’t think about it all through the commute and pulling into a goddamn McDonald’s because he just wants _one_ cup of coffee that doesn’t taste like ass.

But sitting here, at his desk, he remembers. And the paper is nice under his fingertips and he’s going to toss it—

He’s going to call.

He knows because he didn’t just toss the card as soon as it was in his hands, he put it into a pocket where it weighed more than any scrap of paper has a right to. It’s got the sort of inevitability that he can just about taste.

It’s the same feeling as when he was ten and his grandfather gave into his mother and made Shiki his heir, opportunity and the yoke of responsibility falling equally heavy on his shoulders. The feeling of thousands of doors slamming shut to make way for one, looming large.

And he hardly needs another whore in his life. He has plenty. So many that he can’t remember their faces, let alone names. Not sure he wants to, anyway.

His fingers are tapping out the number before he’s thought twice.

“ _Hello?”_

The voice is male. It’s sweet and silky and rich but obviously male.

“I’m calling for an Orihara Izaya.”

“ _Speaking. I take it you’re after my services?”_

Well, it was worth asking. “Yes.”

“ _Excellent,”_ Izaya purrs, and it makes Shiki feel like he’s made the right choice. “ _I have an opening tonight, shall I see you at eight?”_

“I—”

“ _Perfect. I’ll text you the address.”_

The call ends with a click.

The sound of a door of opportunity closing behind him.

❖

Shikiremembers the _beginning_ of the night he got engaged.

He remembers the dinner.

It was a nice restaurant, the kind of place that you have to book out months in advance even with a prominent name. The kind with soft music and small portions that cost exorbitant amounts. The kind that make anything that occurs within the walls feel special, simply by dint of association.

He remembers getting wine, red, because that’s what Namie likes.

He remembers it not being strong enough

“Did you have a nice day?” The candle in the middle of the table flickers and gutters.

“Oh, you’re asking about my day. Is it a special occasion?” The light reflecting off her teeth make them look sharper than usual. Shiki’s wine tastes exactly like the sour grapes it is.

“Just trying to make conversation.”

“It _is_ a special occasion. Lucky me.”

Shiki’s smile feels frigid and he wonders if the candlelight makes his teeth look sharp like ice or soft and intimate.

Namie sips at her wine and eats her food and Shiki watches the candle flame dance and spin and eats little and when they’re done but before the check comes, he gets down on one knee on the cold floor and pulls out the lightest rock he’s ever carried.

“Will you marry me?”

Namie doesn’t give him a smile, doesn’t cry. Her eyes don’t light up. But she does manage to hide most of her distaste and disdain and he supposes that’s good enough. “But of course.”

He remembers sliding a diamond that glittered like ice onto a finger that felt like it.

He remembers the patrons in the restaurant being happier than they were.

He remembers calling his mother. He remembers the warmth and the joy in her voice. “ _Oh Haruya,”_ she sighed, _“I’m so happy. I was so afraid you’d be alone.”_

He was alone.

He was alone in a room with seven hookers and enough cocaine to overdose several elephants and he knew that Namie knew and he knows that she doesn’t care.

He doesn’t remember anything else.

❖

Theaddress is familiar in a way that he can’t place, but becomes clear when he arrives, the taxi stopping in front of a familiar front.

He’s been here before, once. Remembers the candles in the middle to give the illusion of intimacy and privacy that they really didn’t have and kneeling on the cold floor

And Shiki isn’t even able to look around before he’s being bustled off to a table in the back, the sort of table that’s _actually_ secluded and cut off from the rest of the restaurant.

The boy that sits there is pretty enough, in a sharp, almost feminine sort of way. A skinny, classic sort of way. A sort of doll-like way.

It's not the sort Shiki would usually go for, but attractive’s attractive and besides, some of the best nights he's spent have been in Akabayashi’s bed, when he’s drunk enough that it’s almost an excuse and Akabayashi is feeling kind. There has to be a reason Akabayashi would have his card. Would recommend him _personally._

He’s not wearing anything odd, but he’s not dressed as Shiki would expect, either. A long sleeved v-neck and jeans. Not even jeans that look painted on, simply jeans. It doesn’t fit the restaurant and it doesn’t fit his profession, and he has to wonder what it _does_ fit.

“You must be Haruya,” his companion says as Shiki sits. It gives Shiki pause, for a moment. It’s not something he even remembers to share these days. But he must have.

“Most call me Shiki. You must be Izaya?”

Izaya gives him a smile that scrunches his eyes and makes him look like a cat before Shiki blinks and the illusion is gone. “Haruya it is, then. I imagine who ever gave it to you must have put quite a bit of effort into choosing, it’d be a shame to have that go to waste, yeah?”

“I suppose,” Shiki says.

“It would,” Izaya says firmly. “Names have meanings.”

“And what does ‘Izaya’ mean? Is it foreign?”

“Whatever meaning I give it, ne?” Izaya has a faint smirk hanging around his lips. “But it is, partly. From Isaiah, the prophet. And a bit from ‘to look over the crowd.’”

“That’s a lot of meaning to put in one name. Lot of pressure for a kid.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Izaya says, propping his cheek in his hand. “Not as much expectation as yours has, ne?”

“Hardly, just means ’Spring.’ That mean I’m supposed to be cheerful and fuck all the time?” That last part wasn’t supposed to come out. But Izaya doesn’t seem to mind, a Cheshire grin sliding onto his face.

“If you like. But maybe it’s not supposed to be about you, per se. Maybe you’re simply the Spring after a cold winter, the light of someone’s life. I think that’s a bit more of a weight than looking over a crowd, wouldn’t you say?”

Shiki is about say a lot of things, but he’s cut off by the arrival of a waiter brandishing a wine menu and a polite smile like shields.

“Good evening, sirs, I’ll be your waiter tonight, can I start you off with something to drink?

“What wine do you recommend?” Shiki says, because as much as he might want it, scotch is always too much for a first meeting, whether you’re paying for them to like you or not.

“Oh, the merlot, of course,” the waiter says. Shiki is unsurprised to see it the one with the largest price tag.

“What do you prefer?” Shiki asks Izaya before remembering it doesn’t really _matter_ because Izaya is being paid to be here.

“Oh, I don’t drink,” Izaya says. “I’ll have a water. And tea, if you have it.”

“Great, and I’ll have the merlot. Bring the bottle.”

“Of course, sirs, it will be right out. I’ll leave these menus here with you.” The waiter bustles off without lingering. Shiki appreciates that, they both came here with something in mind and nothing in that includes talking to each other.

“Ooh, so many things sound good,” Izaya says, flipping through the menu. “What do you think about getting a variety of things, trying a bit of each. Being adventurous, getting a feel for the chef.”

That’s not a terrible idea, Shiki remembers the portions being the size of his fist, for all price could have bought him an elephant’s worth of hamburger’s anywhere else.

But.

“I was rather thinking dinner would be quick.”

“Why? This is what you’re paying for after all.”

Shiki tries not to let anything show, but must fail because Izaya titters, hiding his mouth behind a delicate white hand, like it could contain any of the malevolent amusement radiating off his smirk.

Their waiter comes back with two glasses, a bottle, a class of water, and a teacup precariously balanced on his tray. Each finds their home with a quick efficiency that speaks of practice.

“We’re ready to order,” Izaya says, flicking his menu shut with a snap. “We’ll have a beef dish, a chicken dish, something with vegetables, and the spaghetti, tell the chef to give us his specials.”

“Very good,” the waiter says, not even blinking.

“There seems to have been a bit of confusion,” Izaya says, pulling a wine glass towards himself, casually pouring his tea into it with a practiced grace. “I don’t think you understand my service.” Izaya traces a finger around the rim of his wine glass. “I’m not a rent boy, I’m a host. You’re paying for the pleasure of my conversion and company, and not the carnal sort.”

“I see,” Shiki says, pouring a generous amount of wine into his glass.

“I don’t think you do,” Izaya says, peering up through thick eyelashes. “But I’ve yet to have an unsatisfied customer.”

“Ah.” Conversation. He’s paying for conversation. He can do conversation. “So how was your day?”

Izaya laughs. “See? You don’t understand a bit. You could talk about anything, _anything_ under the sun.”

“And what if I want to talk about your day?” Shiki says, perhaps a bit more waspishly than he wanted.

“Then you would not be the man I thought you were, hmm? But if you must talk about something banal, let’s talk about _your_ day, ne?” The candlelight dances in Izaya’s eyes, and the red iris seems to glow.

The wine here is sweet, deep and complex. Something approaching the crappiest of whiskeys. “Fine. Went in, did paperwork. Went to a few meetings. Was alright.”

“And how many times did you think about slitting your wrists with your paperwork?” Izaya says airily.

“Only the once, it just seemed such a horribly inefficient way to go.”

Izaya props his check up on a hand. “Your job sounds horribly dull, I would never be able to stand such a thing.”

Shiki shrugs. “We do what we must.”

“And what is it that we must?”

“Pardon?”

“You said ‘we do what we must.’” Izaya’s finger is drawing absent designs on the table, but his gaze is firmly on Shiki. “Is working that job what you _must_? Many would think of it as an opportunity, you know. Many would _kill_ for that position.”

“I’m not one of them.”

“No?” Izaya says, taking a sip of his tea. “Maybe you simply haven’t had the chance yet.”

❖

Talkingwith Izaya is _exhilarating._

It’s not just that he listens, he seems to hear what you say under it all. The real meaning under your words. Everything you say is equally worthy of his attention. Everything he says is interesting.

The air is cold and the night is dark when the restaurant gently reminds them that they close.

Izaya swings on a coat that Shiki can’t believe he didn’t see, trimmed with fur like it is.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Haruya,” Izaya says, a smile on his face. “I look forward to our next appointment.” Izaya starts to walk off into the night, edges starting to become hazy as he blends into the dark.

It’s belatedly that Shiki remembers that he’s paying for the privilege of Izaya’s company. “How do I pay you?”

But Izaya simply lifts a hand and waves it lazily in a gesture that means nothing.

He didn’t drive because his car is recognizable, and while Namie could walk in and have sit at their table and he wouldn’t have given a shit, heaven forbid the news get back to his grandparents. Not that they should have any fucking problems with it, the damn hypocrites.

Sure, he’ll pretend he doesn’t know about the women paid to go away and have their babies in peace. The countless women his grandfather put in the situation he scorned his daughter for, pregnant and unmarried.

If they were lucky. Heaven help the women that threatened to go public and his grandmother’s wrath. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned and given a safe outlet.

But hell, if his _mother_ finds out—

His mother will never find out.

She’s six feet under and for better or worse, her opinion of her doesn’t matter anymore.

Maybe he should have driven.

But it’s a nice night. He wants to walk, he wants to feel the air. He doesn’t want to go home.

And he doesn’t live far. So with one foot in front of the other, he starts to walk. It’s nice. The city’s starting to enter winter and the air is starting to bite, but not too hard yet.

And for once, he doesn’t feel tired. His limbs don’t drag, his senses don’t feel dull.

And maybe that’s why he responds when he would have turned away.

Maybe that’s why he ducks down the alley to see what’s happening. Maybe that’s why, when he sees four men with malice in their eyes and a woman with a ripped shirt and fear in her voice, he doesn’t ignore it.

His phone is in his pocket. The police could be here in minutes.

His fist connects with a jaw with a satisfying _crack_ that sends a shock up his wrist and through his elbow to his shoulder.

“The fuck you doin’ man?”

Shiki wants to know the same thing. He’s not a fighter. Not really. He sends a punch into a gut and gets a fist in the eye for his trouble. He boxed in college, but that was for fun and there were _rules_ and this is nothing like that. But he remembers to keep his hands up and throw out punches and they connect and that seems to be the key. And other fists connect with him, and that’s fine, he can’t really feel them.

It doesn’t matter it’s four on one. It’s all ducking and weaving and his knuckles stinging and his lungs burning and he wonders why he ever gave this up.

Until something connects with his head and his world spins and he’s an _idiot,_ but the girl is gone and there are sirens in her place.

And then the men are gone and he knows distantly that he should be too. That sirens couldn’t be good.

So he runs until he can’t hear the sirens anymore and he can’t recognize the buildings and his lungs are _screaming_ but he can’t help it, the laughter bubbles out of him, and won’t stop until he’s leaning against a filthy, filthy wall panting for breathing, skin on his knuckles broken and bleeding and stinging.

And for once, he feels alive.


End file.
